Page 59 of A Column of Fire

‘Who?’

‘Philbert, and Mrs Cobley, and Dan and Ruth. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother, and their families. Mrs Pollard. Ellis the brewer. The Mason brothers. Elijah Cordwainer. That’s all I know. There might be others.’

‘Good lad,’ Julius said. ‘Now, in a few minutes I’m going to give you my blessing and you can go home.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘Don’t tell anyone we’ve had this conversation – I don’t want people to know where my information comes from. Just go back to your normal life. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, lord bishop.’

Julius looked towards where Rollo and Reginald stood, just outside the chapel. His voice changed from low and friendly to brisk and commanding. ‘Get down to that cowshed now,’ he said. ‘Arrest the heretics – every one of them. Go!’

As Rollo turned to leave, he heard Donal say in a low voice: ‘Oh, God, I’ve betrayed them all, haven’t I?’

Bishop Julius said smoothly: ‘You have saved their souls – and your own.’

Rollo and Reginald left the cathedral at a run. They went up the main street to the Guild Hall and summoned the men of the watch from the basement. They crossed the street to their house and buckled on their swords.

The watchmen all carried home-made clubs of different shapes and sizes. Osmund had a roll of stout cord for tying people’s wrists. Two of the men brought lanterns on poles.

Widow Pollard’s place was a mile away. ‘It would be quicker to ride,’ Rollo said.

‘Not much quicker, in the dark,’ his father replied. ‘And the sound of the horses would forewarn the Protestants. I don’t want any of those devils to slip through our fingers.’

They all marched down the main street, past the cathedral. People looked apprehensively at them. Clearly someone was in big trouble.

Rollo worried that someone friendly to the Protestants might guess what was happening. A fast runner could warn them. He quickened his pace.

They crossed Merthin’s double bridge to the suburb of Loversfield, then followed the Shiring road south. The outskirts of the city were quieter and darker. Fortunately, the road was straight.

Widow Pollard’s house gave on to the street, but her cowshed was set well back in an acre or so of land. The late Walter Pollard had kept a small dairy herd. After he died, his widow had sold the cattle. That was why she had a fine brick cowshed standing empty.

Osmund opened a wide gate, and they all followed the track the cows had used to take to milking. No light showed from the building: a cowshed had no need of windows. Osmund whispered to one of the lantern bearers: ‘Walk around quickly and see if there’s another way out.’

The rest went up to the wide double door. Sir Reginald put his finger to his lips, miming silence, and they all listened. From inside they could hear a murmur of several voices chanting something. After a minute Rollo recognized the Lord’s Prayer.

In English.

That was heresy. No more proof was needed.

The lantern bearer returned and whispered: ‘No other way in or out.’

Reginald tried the door. It seemed to be barred from the inside.

The sound alerted the people in the cowshed, and they fell silent.

Four of the watchmen charged the door, and it flew open. Reginald and Rollo stepped inside.

Twenty people sat on four benches. In front of them was a plain square table, covered with a white cloth, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug that presumably contained wine. Rollo was horrified: they were celebrating their own version of the Mass! He had heard that this went on but never thought he would see it with his own eyes.

Philbert stood behind the table, wearing a white smock over his doublet and hose. He was playing the part of a priest, even though he had never been ordained.

The intruders stared at the blasphemy going on in front of them. The congregation stared back, both sides equally stunned.

Then Reginald found his voice. ‘This is heresy, plain to see. You’re under arrest, every last one of you.’ He paused. ‘Especially you, Philbert Cobley.’

6

On the day before the wedding, Alison McKay was called to see the queen of France.

When the summons arrived Alison was with the bride, Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. Alison had been painstakingly shaving Mary’s underarms, and she had managed to remove the hair without drawing blood. She was putting on oil to soothe the skin when there was a tap at the door and one of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting came in. It was Véronique de Guise: sixteen years old, she was a distant cousin, and therefore not very important, but she made up for that by being beautiful, poised and alluring. ‘A page came from Queen Caterina,’ she said to Alison. ‘Her majesty would like to see you right away.’